out through the archway now, hooves clattering on the tarmac.
‘How many horses have you got here?’ asks Nelson.
‘Eighty,’ says Smith with some pride. ‘Both flat and jump. The flat season’s nearly over but the jump season’s just beginning. We’ve got an all-weather track so we can ride out all year round.’
‘Do the same horses run in flat races and jump races?’ asks Nelson.
‘Good God no.’ Smith stops by a box at the far end ofthe yard. ‘Completely different game. Look at this fellow now. Classic jump horse. Stands every bit of seventeen hands. Got real bone on him.’
Again, Nelson has no idea what this means but there, in the wood-smelling gloom, is the biggest horse he has ever seen, jet black except for a white stripe running down his face.
‘The Necromancer,’ says Smith, in awed tones. ‘Just come from Dubai. He’s a real prospect for next year’s National.’
‘I’ll remember,’ says Nelson.
The black horse looks steadily at them for a moment and lowers his head to his food.
As they pass through another, smaller, yard, Nelson is surprised to see two rather different animals eating from a haynet tied up inside a barn.
‘Are those … donkeys?’
Smith laughs. ‘Some horses don’t like the company of other horses. The Necromancer for one. But they’re herd animals. They don’t like to be alone. So we brought in these little fellows to keep them company. They’re from a local horse rescue place. We call them Cannon and Ball because they’re such jokers.’
Nelson doesn’t see that this follows at all. He pats one of the donkeys, marvelling at how soft its fur is. He sees that both animals have cross-shaped markings on their backs. His mother once told him that all donkeys carry this mark because it was a donkey that carried Christ into Jerusalem. These two don’t look as if they are too bothered by religious significance. They carry on tearing at their hay, large ears twitching.
‘Jolly little fellows,’ says Smith with casual affection. Cannon (or Ball) looks at him out of large long-lashed eyes. Their feet are tiny, like goat’s hooves.
Leaving the jolly donkeys behind, they pass another barn stacked with hay and cross a concrete carport to a large, modern-looking house. Nelson is disappointed. He’d expected a Lord to live in a mansion at least.
‘Is this the country seat?’ he asks.
‘Afraid not,’ says Smith. ‘Slaughter Hill House was pulled down. You can see the ruins in the grounds.’
Again, Nelson is struck by the strange, rather sinister name. He asks Smith about it.
‘There was a battle here in the Civil War. King’s Lynn was Royalist, you know, and the Earl of Manchester attacked the place for the Parliamentarians. There was a great battle hereabouts. Hundreds died.’
Nelson bets he knows which side Lord Smith would have been on. He’s ambivalent himself – he can’t see any particular harm in the Royal Family (he was quite shocked when Ruth once referred to them as ‘parasites’) but he has always admired Cromwell’s warts-and-all approach. And he likes the sound of the Earl of Manchester. He imagines him looking like Sir Alex Ferguson.
‘It’s the hill that gets me,’ he says now. ‘There are no hills in bloody Norfolk.’
‘There’s a slight rise in the park,’ says Smith, ‘that’s why I put the gallops there. It’s good for the horses to go uphill. Builds stamina. But I believe that the name derives from the great mound of bodies after the battle.’
Charming, thinks Nelson. Name a house after a greatpile of festering bodies. Aloud he says, ‘Why was the house pulled down?’
‘It was falling to pieces,’ says Smith sadly. ‘Too far gone to save. It was demolished in the Sixties. Great shame. It was the house I grew up in, lots of memories.’ He stares up at the modern house, frowning slightly, then visibly pulls himself together. ‘But this is better in many ways, far more convenient. And it’s near the
‘How many horses have you got here?’ asks Nelson.
‘Eighty,’ says Smith with some pride. ‘Both flat and jump. The flat season’s nearly over but the jump season’s just beginning. We’ve got an all-weather track so we can ride out all year round.’
‘Do the same horses run in flat races and jump races?’ asks Nelson.
‘Good God no.’ Smith stops by a box at the far end ofthe yard. ‘Completely different game. Look at this fellow now. Classic jump horse. Stands every bit of seventeen hands. Got real bone on him.’
Again, Nelson has no idea what this means but there, in the wood-smelling gloom, is the biggest horse he has ever seen, jet black except for a white stripe running down his face.
‘The Necromancer,’ says Smith, in awed tones. ‘Just come from Dubai. He’s a real prospect for next year’s National.’
‘I’ll remember,’ says Nelson.
The black horse looks steadily at them for a moment and lowers his head to his food.
As they pass through another, smaller, yard, Nelson is surprised to see two rather different animals eating from a haynet tied up inside a barn.
‘Are those … donkeys?’
Smith laughs. ‘Some horses don’t like the company of other horses. The Necromancer for one. But they’re herd animals. They don’t like to be alone. So we brought in these little fellows to keep them company. They’re from a local horse rescue place. We call them Cannon and Ball because they’re such jokers.’
Nelson doesn’t see that this follows at all. He pats one of the donkeys, marvelling at how soft its fur is. He sees that both animals have cross-shaped markings on their backs. His mother once told him that all donkeys carry this mark because it was a donkey that carried Christ into Jerusalem. These two don’t look as if they are too bothered by religious significance. They carry on tearing at their hay, large ears twitching.
‘Jolly little fellows,’ says Smith with casual affection. Cannon (or Ball) looks at him out of large long-lashed eyes. Their feet are tiny, like goat’s hooves.
Leaving the jolly donkeys behind, they pass another barn stacked with hay and cross a concrete carport to a large, modern-looking house. Nelson is disappointed. He’d expected a Lord to live in a mansion at least.
‘Is this the country seat?’ he asks.
‘Afraid not,’ says Smith. ‘Slaughter Hill House was pulled down. You can see the ruins in the grounds.’
Again, Nelson is struck by the strange, rather sinister name. He asks Smith about it.
‘There was a battle here in the Civil War. King’s Lynn was Royalist, you know, and the Earl of Manchester attacked the place for the Parliamentarians. There was a great battle hereabouts. Hundreds died.’
Nelson bets he knows which side Lord Smith would have been on. He’s ambivalent himself – he can’t see any particular harm in the Royal Family (he was quite shocked when Ruth once referred to them as ‘parasites’) but he has always admired Cromwell’s warts-and-all approach. And he likes the sound of the Earl of Manchester. He imagines him looking like Sir Alex Ferguson.
‘It’s the hill that gets me,’ he says now. ‘There are no hills in bloody Norfolk.’
‘There’s a slight rise in the park,’ says Smith, ‘that’s why I put the gallops there. It’s good for the horses to go uphill. Builds stamina. But I believe that the name derives from the great mound of bodies after the battle.’
Charming, thinks Nelson. Name a house after a greatpile of festering bodies. Aloud he says, ‘Why was the house pulled down?’
‘It was falling to pieces,’ says Smith sadly. ‘Too far gone to save. It was demolished in the Sixties. Great shame. It was the house I grew up in, lots of memories.’ He stares up at the modern house, frowning slightly, then visibly pulls himself together. ‘But this is better in many ways, far more convenient. And it’s near the
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